


Hot Guys Make Sammies

by Paranormal_Shitness



Category: Hotline Miami (Video Games)
Genre: Digital Art, Drug Use, Emetophilia, Every Bad Bodily Fluid Possible, Forced Drug Use, Forced blowjobs, Gang Rape, Gun Sucking, Light Waterboarding, M/M, Mild Gore, Multi, Non-verbal! Jacket, Not Canon Compliant, Party In The Meat Freezer, Piss, Public Use, Vodka Enima, human urinal, near death expirience, porn w/o plot, self edited, suffocation, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-19 16:00:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17604452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paranormal_Shitness/pseuds/Paranormal_Shitness
Summary: Wait this isn’t a fucking Subway





	Hot Guys Make Sammies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sluttymatsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sluttymatsu/gifts).



> Just finished the first game. May post some character sketches to this piece at a later date.
> 
> This piece is for a long time friend I met through Metal Gear. Our government assigned kins are canonically married in that series so of course he’s the only person I talk to online.

It’s about 6:00 pm when the telephone rings. He knows because he watched the little numbers flip over on the digital clock face by his bed. 

The phone rings but he doesn’t get up to answer it. He rolls over in bed, and lets it keep ringing. 

They’ll leave him a message. They always do.

By the time he’s on his feet it’s 9:51 pm. Late. Too late really. They might be getting a little impatient with him at this point. But he’s still hungover. Still ripped up from the last high. All the booze and adrenaline, and scored coke. 

He still has a bit tucked into his bedside, and it seems like a good idea. A morning boost to start off the day. It at least gives him the strength to stumble out the bedroom door. 

Down the hallway.

To the phone.

His answering machine tells him it’s 9:56. Which means it took him at least five whole minutes to hit a bump of coke and stumble down the hallway. It also tells him he has one new message. And it hisses at him with a sort of static sound as he hits play.

‘Hey, this is Joe, from Universal Air. We got a few units that need to be installed down at 3080 SE Hampton,’ the thing says to him.

He hits delete, and sniffles to try and combat the running of his nose. 

It’s probably not safe to be driving like this, but nothing else he’s about to do tonight is safe either. He’s got himself in a rush by the time he gets there. Four more bumps, and he’s starting to really feel something. Really feel his heart hammering in his chest.

There’s already sweat on his face as he pulls his mask on. And he can hear the rushing of his blood high in his veins.

Then the nerves hit. He pulls the mask back up, and wipes his hands messily up and down his mouth, over his nose and chin. A few more bumps should do the trick. Should even him out. Put him on the right.

He’s outside a hoagie shop. One of those little Russian corner stores with a sandwich deli. And he can already see them swarming around in there.

The store front is all glass with masses of advertisements plastered across them. It’s gonna take some vague thought to go in there empty handed.

He hasn’t got the vantage, to see the whole shop but he can count at least three guys in front of the counter, one running himself right up against the windows, staring out, the other two smoking cigarettes behind him.

Or he can just say fuck it. Go in hot and heavy, he thinks, keying his ignition back on.

The guy at the front turns to run as he guns his car through the shop front but there’s no room to get away as the crash hits. Deafening. Not just the sound of a car slamming through breaking glass but the sound of metal screeching on metal as the thin frames of the shop front rend across his fenders. The other two don’t notice in time to shield themselves from the glass fully, catching it on their hands and the exposed parts of their faces just as the noise registers. He slams into them moments later.

Total silence. For a second, just one, as he adjusts to his new surroundings, first battling the airbag out of his face and then stumbling out of the car.

One of the guys is crawling around on the floor, head smashed to pieces and leaking shit everywhere, but still making a fuss.

He takes a moment to stop and drive his foot down through what’s left of a skull there. Put the guy out of his fucking misery. Then, as the death rattles up around the sole of his shoe he wrests the gun from the man’s hands before they manage to go slack.

Silence again.

That eerie, creeping kind. 

He straightens up, looking around at Cyrillic sausage and beer adds, then shoulders his rifle and moves on.

Behind the counter, there’s a small butchery. Four more guys inside, ready for something to come down after all that commotion. 

He kicks open the swinging door and fires at the nearest one, spraying viscera along the half corpse of a laterally bisected pig hung from a hook in the ceiling. 

Nice shot.

There’s a commotion as the door swings back shut and he ducks out of view. The three guys left standing are shouting, in English, Russian, whatever they know.

He doesn’t let them get too deep in the conversation before ducking back through the door and picking off another one.

Silence.

He waits. Breathes. Let’s time tick for a moment, then ducks back through and finishes off the third guy. 

Then he takes a second, stares into the butchery.

His fourth guy is missing.

It’s a nervous trip in. He doesn’t want to give them the advantage but he also doesn’t want to loose the one he has by letting word get around what he’s up to. Why he’s driven an entire car through the front window of this junk heap and lit up the butchers. 

Plus the pig, he notes as he slides past the bullet holes in it’s thawing mass.

There’s a door at the back. Not a swinging double door like the one he’s just come through but one of those hollow metal things you find in office building stairways. 

He turns the handle slowly and pushes it open onto a set of stairs leading down and out of sight.

Fucking basements.

He’s lucky this one’s empty but luck isn’t a calming factor. A stop at the bottom of the stairs to peek around into the hallway and get a good idea what’s c-

The impact catches him at an upward angle just beneath the knot in the back of his skull and knocks his mask clean off, sweaty latex shlubbing to the floor with a wet thwack. He meets with the concrete seconds after.

And then he lies there. Fully conscious. Aware, in a foggy sort of far off way of lying there. Stupid fucking- lies there- Can’t really get up. Or move. Or-

His ears are ringing and his vision is fading in and out.

It’s a huge effort, but he manages to turn his head to the side just in time to see Asshole Ivan reach down for him.

Pain shoots up through his shoulder as the guy grabs his arm and hauls him along the floor by it. The the concrete drags, his clothing unseating grains from it’s chipped and weathered surface. 

Ivan’s taking him through some doorway. He struggles against the high pitched screaming sound in his ears, and the feeling that the world is pitching back and forth to reach out and catch his arm around the door jam but Ivan just kicks him again. 

The toe of a nice, Italian leather shoe, cuts up against the ridge of his brow and his vision goes totally black for a blissful moment of nothingness before a splitting sensation shoots from the impact point straight to the back of his head like an icepick. 

At least, he thinks, Alexander III here missed his nose. But then the cold metal floor rushes in to fill that base for them so everyone can be satisfied. 

And he realizes two things right about then.

First that he’s lying half inside a giant meat locker and second-

This is not looking good.

His vision is fading in and out but he can make out vague dark spots in it that seem to be somewhere between eight and ten human shaped blurs.

This is probably the part where he should start praying but he doesn’t know what to say.

Dear god- Sorry I spent so much time mindlessly following directions anonymously delivered to my answering machine. Never meant to kill so many people. I was just really high and kind of out of it and it all seemed like a game.

No that sounds shitty. That sounds stupid-shitty. Dumb. Fuck.

Alexander kneels down and threads fingers thick as bear claws through the hair on the back of his head to yank his face off the floor.

‘Look what we find,’ the guy says through the guttural shading of a thick accent and he can hear him hold the mask out more than he can clearly see it. Just a dark spot wobbling in his vision.

‘One of those then?’ Another man, this one with no accent at all, asks. ‘Some kind of Wild Animal.’

A third man cuts in in rapid, almost angry Russian. But only gets a few ‘tsks’ And humorless laughs in return.

‘Chicken, alright,’ says a fourth man. ‘He took out Micha and Storig like he was born for it. I watched him.’

‘So you said.’

It’s getting difficult to keep the voices straight. He’s half sure this is one he’s heard before and half sure it’s a newcomer to the conversation. There’s just too much to keep track of and he’s dizzy.

The way that fucking hand is viced up in his hair like that is keeping the pain in his head from subsiding. Which is making him nauseous, and as he lays there, trying to follow the threads of conversation polite enough to happen in English, the freezer tips sideways and slams upward into nothing.

He’s cold. Someone’s hands are fiddling around with his clothes, tugging at his waist. There’s quick, conversational Russian being thrown around by several people in several places all of which he’s having trouble tracking. 

A shadow hands something thing over him toward another shadow, saying something that’s nothing but guttural, Slavic gibberish and the other one uses it- something metal, so cold it burns, and hard- to wrench his arms up over his head. That’s when he realizes they’ve stripped his Jacket off. 

And they’re taking his pants. Which means his shoes are long gone. 

There’s no time to wonder what they’re hoping to find on him. More weapons. Information. He doesn’t really care. The position’s gotten a little compromised. But whatever ridiculous concussion he has isn’t mixing well with the drugs in his system or the fact that he feels like he’s dangling somewhere in space. There’s an arm wrapped around each of his shins, and his feet are touching nothing but the frozen air.

The vapor borne on the heat of his breath is clinging to his lips to try and avoid being expelled into that void. Fat lot of good that’ll do. Everything he brought here today is stuck in this with him. His mask. His jacket. His lost and forgotten tennis shoes. Hell even the fucking car sitting upstairs most likely with a fucked front end and a damaged engine block. 

If he’s not getting out of this. No one else is.

Images are starting to swim back into focus, but they still feel foggy and far off. It’s the mist, he realizes. They’re all so warm in such a cold space they’re creating mist.

Then his vision jolts and jostles as he pitches suddenly to one side.

‘Fucking hold him,’ someone grunts in English. 

Then the Russian takes back over. 

He wants to flip them off but he can’t seem to manage with his elbows slung over whatever metal pipe they’re holding his arms with. He’s useless. Which he supposes is what they want in the big picture but it is a bit fucked up not to pay a model for the pose.

He’s trying to get his legs to work so he can kick them off, but he doesn’t seem to be getting much of anywhere until it alerts whichever assholes are holding onto his ankles and they start laughing at him. 

Great.

Way to make a guy feel secure in his social position.

Then the fingers hook into the waistband of his briefs. 

No.

No. This wouldn’t be going anywhere like that, would it?

These are organized criminals they aren’t going to-

His underpants are dragged down his thighs and then cut messily with a knife straight through the crotch seam so the men holding his legs don’t have to let go.

‘Now spread him open,’ someone with a heavy accent says.

Much to his horror, his knees are wrenched apart without any overt exertion on the behalf of the Russians. The mist of his breath makes it hard to tell what’s happening but he can feel gloved hands poking around his groin without any clear goal.

The latex is inching downward past the dip in his pelvis beside his dick toward his taint, pausing and pressing repeatedly into him. When they move back even further he manages to buck his hips, throwing the two guy’s holding his legs off balance and making the man in latex gloves laugh.

There’s a moment where he says something over his shoulder in Russian, and another man responds before everyone joins in on the chuckle. Then the man turns back to him, looks him straight in the eye, and says, ‘For information, Yeah?’ before shoving his rubbery fingers upward, hard, past his sphincter.

What information this little science experiment could possibly give them is beyond him. What he knows is something has definitely just torn. It feels far from right. 

‘He makes noise,’ someone says as he winces and a chorus of laughter goes up around him.

‘Make him cry!’ Someone else demands, and then another man cuts back in with more Russian.

The man standing between his legs with a finger up his ass shakes his head. ‘Empty,’ he says. ‘Useless.’

He’s pretty sick of only being able to follow about a fourth of the conversation but it doesn’t seem like there’s a way out of this. 

Oh well, he thinks absently, if they kill him, he’ll just start over and get them back for it.

Which is pretty morbid but is arguably the only silver lining to this situation.

The horde around him seems to be growing increasingly bored and restless. Which probably isn’t good for him. If he doesn’t fight he’ll probably be fine. They’ll probably beat him a little less. Maybe he’ll die mostly painlessly. 

He’s forcing himself to relax when the finger slides out of him. 

Looks like he’s right looks like if he just-

He doesn’t hear the zipper slide down. Or the jingle of the belt buckle. He doesn’t notice the guy undoing his pants. But he does notice when it pushes in.

And then there’s no option really.

He wrenches his left leg up out of one guy’s grip and kicks, hard into the asshole between his leg’s nose. There’s a satisfying crunch as the heel of his bare foot collides, driving the thing up and back. 

‘Fuck!’ someone yells as the room devolves into a susurra of overlapping Russian chatter.

One of the Ivans ducks down to try and see if the guy he just nailed in the face is still breathing, and he presses his advantage, swinging his foot over into the one holding his right leg and catching him in the temple.

Mercifully the asshole lets go, and his feet drop hard, heels first, onto the frozen steel floor. 

‘Kill him! Kill him!’ Someone is shouting.

He scrambles, trying to gain traction on the ice he’s braces against , but can’t manage.

Then suddenly, the bar in the crook of his elbows wrenches back and a knee drives itself up into his spine so hard he’s forced down onto his knees.

‘Open his mouth! Hold it open!’ Someone shouts, reaching back, likely for a gun tucked into a waistband.

This is it, he thinks, casually, this one shot and he just starts over.

The gun clatters metallically against the enamel of his teeth as it’s shoved in and down his throat. He gags, tries to suppress the urge to vomit.

‘Filthy, cock-sucking dog!’ The man snarls in his ear.

He smirks around the gun. 

‘We will teach you Animals the meaning of retribution,’ Ivan insists.

And then the gun slides, uncomfortably, from his mouth, leaving him anxious, unsure of what comes next.

The pistol whip. Obviously. He should have expected more head trauma. 

His vision blurs and darkens again, jerking sickeningly from side to side like he’s on a sailboat being jostled by a particularly persistent set of swells. 

‘I’ll make you fucking cry!’ The asshole promises, then says something in Russian to the guy holding his head and the fingers on his jaw tighten painfully, forcing his mouth open further.

It tastes like salt and that smell you get in a high school locker room when it slams over his tongue and down his throat. He gags again, loudly. An ugly and upsetting sound but the guy in his mouth just laughs about it and finds a pace.

He balks, tries to pull back so he can breathe, but the head of Ivan’s dick just catches on his tonsils and he wretches, puke bubbling up his throat around the intrusion. He’s sure he’s gonna breathe it back in and die suffocating but the asshole at least has enough hospitality to pull out and let him blow his chunks.

It stinks like his earlier dinner of pizza and beer and the cocaine that ran down the back of his nose after he snorted it. Bitter and acidic on his tongue. 

‘Disgusting,’ the man who’d been fucking his face complains.

‘Let me clean,’ someone else cuts in.

He looks up and sees the massive redhead who’d clubbed him and dragged him in here in the first place, unbuckling his belt with a smirk. What he’s expecting is another throat fucking but what he gets is a hot splattering of piss across his open mouth. He fights, again to close it, but the fingers holding his face have dug into the joints in his jaw, and he honestly can’t.

It hits his tongue, splashes up into his nose, and he squeezes his eyes shut nervously, willing this all to stop. 

Clearly Alexander, because he really does look that much like a bear that a peta member mistook for a fashionista and painted red, has been holding it for a while. It comes and keeps coming until he’s choking and gasping for air again.

The assholes around him are laughing and jeering. 

‘Decent urinal,’ the Tsar says, turning back to others.

He chokes, and manages to force most of the piss out of his mouth, splattering it down the front of his shirt like he had the vomit where it quickly cools, sticking the cotton to his chest.

Between the coughing, the throat fucking and the vomit, his throat is already burning, but the mob mentality’s in full swing around him. They’re egging each other on, seeing how far it’s acceptable to take this game.

Someone, probably Ivan six or seven at this point but he’s completely lost track, throws something guttural and Slavic out to the room at large, and rams another cock down his throat.

At least this one’s smaller, but that’s about his only saving grace. 

His stomach is churning, and he can still taste the piss on his tongue, smell it mixing with the vomit on his shirt and the smell of the pubes shoved up into his nose. Which isn’t at all helping how much his head hurts or how fucking dizzy he is. 

Ivan number whatever finishes himself off pretty quick to a round of laughter and jeering from the other Ivans and someone rushes in with some rapid fast talk, voice high and nasally.

Then he tastes the bitter powder of uncoated pills as they’re shoved into his mouth.

‘We need something to wash it down,’ someone else says. 

At least at this point, he’s getting savvy enough to expect what’s coming next and hold his breath first, close his eyes before more piss hits his mouth, hot and salty. Like chicken broth someone left out in the sun all day.

Then the hand on his jaw lessens and slams his mouth shut so hard his teeth jar against each other. Another lancing ache shoots out of his head and down his spine. Then the hand lifts back further and another one rubs itself along his throat, forcing him to swallow.

The urge to puke again surges up instantly, but those hands hold him there, curled around his airway firmly until it passes.

The freezer lurches from side to side again as they let go for a moment. Then the grip on his jaw returns and someone else steps up to the plate for a round of batting with his teeth. Fast and hard against his uvula so he drools and just can’t stop.

When The bastard finishes, and pulls out, thick strings of saliva and stomach acid and cum pull out with him, adding to the mess trailing down his chin and chest, soaking his shirt to him with rapidly cooling bodily fluids.

‘I don’t do sloppy,’ another guy says.

He closes his eyes, expecting another round of hot piss in the mouth and actually yelps when what he gets instead is cold vodka. The liquor pools around his teeth, taking advantage of his loosened throat to slide down into his already churning stomach along with the pills and the coke and the nothing.

‘Get him on his hands and knees,’ someone else says and general overlapping chatter wells up again.

‘Too dangerous to let his hands go.’

‘We have rope?’

‘For the pigs.’

There’s a lull in the activity. The conversation swells and falls as two or three of the group break away to find supplies. An out of place air of generally amicable chatter takes over the group then. A few assholes light up cigarettes, unfiltered, first with matches and then by monkey fucking the ends together. One even offers him a puff.

He takes it, and it’s followed up with another refreshment from the vodka bottle. 

Room service, he thinks. Well at least it tires to make up for the lousy bed and board in this place.

It probably only takes about a minute and a half before the guys who left to find rope come clattering back through the freezer door with some kind of rolling table made from that universally sanitizeable stainless steal.

The group greets this, and the supplies piled onto the table’s tiered shelves, with excitement and approval. 

Then he’s hauled to his feet again, and bent backward over the top of the thing. The metal is surprisingly warm compared to the air, having only just been hauled in, but the feeling of warmth returning to his body only makes him shiver harder. The rope is wound, firmly around his ankles, pulling itself tighter with every jerk of the lead until all his limbs are bound and the circulation in his right foot, where they started, is pinched badly.

Then another hand forces his jaw open and they shove a piece of metal in behind his teeth, holding them open.

Again he thinks that if he were going to choose the way in which he would die tonight, it would not have been this.

A hand presses down on the underside of his chin, forcing his head further back off the edge of the table so his throat is held open. The cock that follows isn’t unexpected but he chokes again as he finds himself now completely unable to control how fast it slams to base. By far the worst part is how he can’t even focus on that, focus on breathing.

Someone’s playing with his asshole again. Fingers not getting very far past his clenched sphincter. First they try spitting on him. Which is just enough to get something in, and pry him apart a little further so they can upend the vodka bottle into his ass.

He tries to shout as the cold liquid sends spikes of hot and cold pain up through his stomach, but he’s muffled by the dick pumping in and out of his mouth.

Laughter and chatter swell as the vodka starts to cascade back out of him, most likely decidedly darker and less clear than it went in.

He squeezes his eyes shut and wills it to stop again.

He just wants to start over. He just wants to come back in prepared and make sure he gets all four assholes in the butchery before anyone runs to warn the others. 

But it doesn’t stop.

The guy fucking his face keeps up pace while an entire fifth of vodka empties itself out of him onto the freezer floor. 

‘-sanitary now,’ he hears someone say. And isn’t it just reassuring to know that the Russian motherfuckers gang raping you are too prissy for shit dick?

They also want to get him blitzed, a voice in his head says.

He’s starting to feel the pills take effect, and he’s a bit worried it’s ecstasy. 

E and coke don’t mix well. That’s like taking ibuprofen and aspirin on top of each other and washing it down with hard liquor. Which coincidentally he kind of has.

A dick is pressing itself up into him now that he’s empty. Rucking itself along his blown out insides, warming him back up slowly. Which is almost kind of nice at this point.

His heart is beating out of his chest, and the dizziness is only doubling down on itself. A thick layer of sweat is starting to cover his chest and arms, stick his skin to the metal table top, but he can’t really feel the cold so much any more.

The thought that he might be about to OD occurs to him but he tells himself it’s just the head trauma. And even if he does it’s a better way to go out than suffocation. 

He’ll be able to start over again.

Which is a calming thought. Starting over. Seeing all these assholes dead.

His vision is giving up under the onslaught. The overstimulation. The fact that someone, probably someone a little gay, has decided it’d be funny to play with his dick too at this point, and the E they shoved in him is making that not so unpleasant. 

It could be a lot worse. He could be getting gang raped sober. That’d be second only to sitting through a day at the DMV to find out what you needed was a service only supplied at a specific center.

The dick in his ass pulls out, and is quickly replaced by a bigger one. One thick enough to actually scrape across the right bits in there and now that the drugs are really kicking in it’s actually kind of good. He can’t help the noise he makes which somehow turns the dick in his throat into something almost bordering on a relief because it muffles him, makes it hard to tell he’s not protesting anymore.

Of course nothing lasts long, and it’s seconds between that thought and the cock in his mouth pulling back to empty a load out over his chin and throat which gives him just enough time to moan openly, almost wantonly into the cold air, the sound carried up on a steam of vapor as it pours out of his mouth.

Everyone in the freezer falls silent. All the motion stops. They’re all staring at him.

Then someone jeers something in Russian and they all laugh and the activity resumes at an even higher pitch.

Someone replaces the motherfucker who just finished on his face without even wiping up the mess dripping up over the rounds of his cheeks, holding his head down with their dick.

He wouldn’t have a chance to see anything at this angle even if his vision wasn’t in and out right now and it is. The bite of a blade into the skin on his stomach is something he has no way to prepare for beyond being as thoroughly intoxicated as he is.

The cut’s not that deep, he doesn’t think. Just surface level. Someone’s writing something on him. The blood is warm as it pools up on his abs and runs, quickly cooling down onto the table. It slides down under his back, rocked back and forth like a rough tide by the motion of the table being jostled.

The asshole in his mouth finishes deep in his throat this time before pulling out, and he gags, vomiting again so that a mix of vodka pills and piss rush up and out through his nose.

‘He’s so loose,’ he hears someone from the vague direction of down say.

It gets a few more laughs but it’s the only English thing he’s heard since they strapped him down.

With the vomit sitting in his sinuses now, he’s even less able to breathe around the cock being shoved back into his throat.

How many people has he sucked off now? How many people have cum in him? 

Another splatter of hot hits his flaccid dick, and splashes up across his stomach, mixing with the blood, seeping into whatever letters whoever left there.

The only thing he knows for sure is that this has been going on for a while. The rotation. His frayed nerves. He’s loosing track of anything he did have track on at this point, which wasn’t much. 

The world doesn’t feel real, feels like it’s slipping away. What little he can see won’t stop rocking and the ringing in his ears is taking over his hearing again, drowning out the din of animalistic conversation, the desperate sounds of fucking.

This really sucks, he thinks. And then he doesn’t think anything for several moments because he stops feeling.

Just sort of steps out of reality and kicks back in a black, baseless void somewhere completely detached from the world.

A moment later it all comes rushing back, and he pulls a jagged breath in past swollen lips before another cock shoves it’s way down his throat.

He’s definitely gonna die like this. Choking on a dick. Choking on cum and piss and vodka.

A cold feeling in his ass tells him they’ve decided to repeat the party trick with a fresh bottle.

The Ivan fucking his mouth pulls out again, and lifts his head up so their eyes meet. ‘Alright, Princess?’ He manages to make out the guy asking.

He shakes his head ‘no,’ but that only gets him a laugh and the dick shoved back in.

Someone’s doing lines off the bloody steel table top next to him. He can feel the tickle of their hair sweeping up his side.

Then an impact tears through everything. Something loud enough he hears it clearly past the ringing in his ears, which only gets worse. 

Blood splatters across his vision as the asshole fucking his throat’s intestines seem to spontaneously liberate themselves through his stomach.

People are either ducking for cover or being mowed down. 

He squeezes his eyes shut again, thinking of starting this all over. 

When he opens them, he’s been untied, and shoved off the table so he’s lying face down on the freezer floor in his own mess, and something that feels like a boot is pushing harmlessly against his side.

‘Fucking dead,’ he hears someone, a local by the accent, say.

Then he sees a pair of bright, blue doc martins step up over his head and walk out of the freezer.

When he wakes up, he’s naked, but everyone’s dead.

Nice to start over, he thinks, crawling over to his jacket and slipping it back on.

He’s absolutely freezing as he pushes up onto his feet, and a torrent of creamy, brown tinted vodka sloshes out of him, but he ignores it. He got to kill the bastards anyway.

Walking is hard, so he braces himself against the little table next to him. It rolls a few inches but stops when it hits what used to be someone’s arm.

He needs his pants and his shoes, but there’s no finding them in this fucking mess so he appropriates some from one of the bodies on the floor and limps out of the freezer.

The stairs are a challenge. He finds himself mostly pulling himself up them by the railing, tripping over his feet as he makes the landing at the top and stumbles back through into the butchery.

An engine turns over outside, past the double doors leading into the storefront. He stiffens, hesitates, and then waddles through them just in time to see someone peel away on a motorcycle. 

Exhausted, and aching through to his bones, he climbs back into his car and drives home.

When he wakes up in the morning and takes a shower, he can’t remember how he ended up with Cyrillic letters carved into his stomach, but the scabs are dark, black, and impossible to ignore.

So is the distant feeling of arousal. Like having been denied an orgasm he almost forgot he wanted.

His spunk splatters out over his fingers and down over the drain mouth before the water washes it away.


End file.
